


Hot in the city

by AliceA



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anger, Cool Sherlock, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hot John, Hot Sex, Hot Weather, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Smut, cool bedroom, sherlock/john smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 00:46:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1325419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceA/pseuds/AliceA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The overbearing heat is getting the better of one John Hamish Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Heating up, cooling off

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again to all my friends.  
> point to note, i'm irish so some words may look strange written down.  
> ask if you migh not undertand certain things like 'couch' is a 'sofa' or nitty gritty things like that. 
> 
> criticism appriciated  
> Thanks for the love  
> :D

The room was silent, and tense with unspoken words. Sherlock lay sprawled across the length of the plush leather couch and beyond, his large feet handing off the end of the arm rest, the elegant silk of his overhanging dressing gown flowing majestically as a faint gust of wind from a rotating fan blew the material in waves against the front of the seat every 17.8 seconds. His eyes were closed and his forehead was rippled with concentration and beads of sweat. His flat chest was visible and glistening between the layers of silk and heaving gently at a very deep subconscious level. The curls of his jet black hair clung to the nape of his neck and had been slicked off his forehead loosely using his fingers as a comb. 

John sat clawing at the arm of his chair with one hand, his other hand pressing the buttons of the television remote control in sequence, channel up, channel up, channel up… His nostrils were flaring and his head pounded in unison to the small antique style clock on the mantelpiece. “Tick, tock, tick bloody tock,” John thought to himself as he closed his eyes, trying to dull out the thud, thud, thud, thud of his splitting headache. 

He too wasn’t wearing his shirt, but had to remind himself that despite what Sherlock thinks, it is not appropriate for two men to walk around the house in nothing but their boxers, as his infuriating friend had decided to do, apart from that ridiculous silk dressing gown.

Instead John had donned a pair of rugby shorts and a black vest top, to hide the very likely sweat stains at the small of his back and under his arms. Sweat droplets trickled down his neck and soaked through the material at the hem on his collarbone, disappearing into the dark fabric. His breaths were heavy as he flicked through the channels, stumbling over below average IQ daytime TV shows, usually titled ‘I married a head of cabbage’ or ‘what to do if your arm gets stuck down the toilet’. 

His eyes darted over to his flatmate, composed and collected as ever. John was becoming more and more agitated the longer he sat in his chair. He turned off the TV in frustration, (insofar as you can aggressively press the ‘on/off’ button on a remote control) and made exaggerated groaning sounds as he tried to make himself comfortable in the dreadful heat, trying to mimic Sherlock’s mannerisms. 

“He sees how annoying his tantrums are when I do them, give him a taste of his own medicine!” John thought aggressively, but then stepped back from himself and shook his head at his own pettiness. He sighed heavily and let his head fall back onto the chair, the awkwardness of the angle not easing his discomfort. 

“Bored”, he heard Sherlock push between his lips from across the room. 

“hrrrrrrrrrrrmmmm” John replied, too weak and hot to care. 

“I said BORED, John! Have you gone DEAF as well as moronic since we last spoke?” 

Another wave of heat fell onto John’s overburdened lap, the heat of his flatmates words, and it was the trigger John had been secretly hoping would emerge from the desperate heat.

“That’s it!” John jumped out of the chair and began pacing back and forth in the living room. The room was thick with heat and every surface created a mirage effect, except instead of mini oasis, or even glasses of water, the objects had turned out to be dismembered animal limbs in pickling jars or bottles of dangerous, and probably illegal chemicals. John noted to himself several times when his eyes were caught between this imagination and reality that he had Sherlock must have a chat about stealing chemicals and equipment from Bart’s… again. 

“I am sick of this room-” John continued “and I am sick of you!” his index finger pointed childishly towards his friend. 

“Me?” Sherlock murmured “I haven’t done a thing” his voice thick with indifference. 

“You don’t have to DO anything! You just sit there and sweat and THINK, happy as a clam, while the rest of the world is melting!” 

Sherlock looked up at his dishevelled flatmate.

“You are projecting on me because I’m thinking?” 

The two men stared at each other for longer than necessary. With each passing second John could feel his muscles tense and his forehead burn with frustration. Suddenly John realised that Sherlock was right, the arrogant git. 

“Arrgh!” John exclaimed and lay down on the floor, and fixed his particularly skimpy rugby shorts between his legs, least his housemate should see his exposed genitalia. Underpants had seemed like a bad idea this morning. 

John tried to keep his eyes open, but the combination of the soaring London heat wave and the lack of sleep John had endured as a result of it over the last 6 days, was making the process difficult and was frying the last of his nerves. 

“You should sleep nights, John. Napping at half ten in the morning is a bit juvenile, even for you.” Sherlock interjected, waking John from his almost doze. 

“I would if I could smart ass, but this heat is unbearable! How are you not throwing yourself around the flat in a fit of rage by now? You had a strop just the other day when I ate the last of the peanut butter, but this, nearly 40 degrees Celsius of heat and you are as cool as a bloody cucumber!”

“It’s only 32 degrees of heat actually, and besides I have been acquiring the adequate amount of sleep regardless of how ‘unbearable’ it may seem.” Sherlock emphasised the ending, implying the full and dutiful sarcasm is to be interject in the sentence. 

“What? Have you made your room out of ice like an igloo?” John snorted feebly and scorn himself again. How did he survive Afghanistan in full military uniform for years without so much as a complaint yet here he is, in London, bitching about half the heat he was once previously used to? He wondered to himself for a period of time before his thoughts were gladfully interrupted by his flatmate.

“As you may know, my superior intellect needs to be regulated in a homeostasis-like external environment. Fortunately for me my brain thrive best in cool conditions, hence way my brain is most active in colder climates. As a result of some mechanical tinkering and brief engineering calculations, I re-routed the flow of air from hot to cold in my bedroom, and pumped the remaining heat around the rest of the house”

John stared at him and barked, “That’s why my room has been so bloody hot, you absolute g-”

“Let me finish-” Sherlock interrupted John’s profanity, “by conducting this experiment I have made my bedroom delectably cool in this ‘heatbox’ as you keep reiterating…" 

The room was silent.

"John… Jooohn,” 

Sherlock look around the room and towards the space where his flatmate had previously been lying, and could hear the distant sound of footsteps down the hallway.

“For goodness sake, John” Sherlock uttered as he lifted his body off the chair and made his way towards his own bedroom door. 

To be continued.


	2. Breakthrough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HOT in the city

“For goodness sake, John” Sherlock uttered as he lifted his body off the chair and made his way towards his own bedroom door.

* * * * * * * * *  
Before Sherlock had even finished speaking, John Watson had jumped up from the hard, unforgiving floor and was making his way down the narrow hallway. His nerves were tingling with anticipation and hope as he approached the recognised but unfamiliar wooden door of his friend’s bedroom. He stopped momentarily and examined the frame, remembering those days where Sherlock would stalk straight through this door and remain hidden behind its confines for days on end, refusing to eat or sleep, making John crazy with worry. His fingers skirted lightly over the wood, feeling the rough texture beneath the pads of his fingers before seizing the round knob in his hand and giving it a gentle but firm twist. 

When the door swung open John was enveloped in a mist of icy air and shuddered as the cooling waves hitched in his throat. He could feel the beads of sweat crystalize on his chest on forehead as the icy fog bellowed out from the room, making John whimper with delight. The room was as he had remembered it the night Sherlock had been drugged by The Woman and had to be escorted back into the bed, swooning as he collapsed open-armed into the sheets, reminding John of a child mimicking an airplane. 

The room was monotonous and grey with vacancy. The large double bed dressed in Egyptian cotton sheets looked as tailored as his own expensive suits, an utter contrast to the flamboyant and colourful nature of his consulting detective. 

No wait, the consulting detective, not his consulting detective. 

John bashed the grammatical mistake away with a vigorous shake of his head. He refused to let himself make such mistakes again. Thinking about it only make it harder.

He lifted his head back up and surveyed the room, trying to find a chair or somewhere he could rest himself in this cool haven, hidden away from the tremendous summer heat. There were no chairs in the room, and the thoughts of returning to the floor wearied the older man. He could feel the pains in his leg and shoulder flare up again at the mere thoughts of the hard, unsupportive, carpeted floor. His eyes found themselves staring at the perfectly folded sheets of his bed. It didn’t look comfortable. It looked hard and flat, like a layer of bricks tucked into a cocoon of material. He debated very quickly the social and moral implications of hopping onto his housemate’s bed in nothing but his skimpy rugby shorts and unprotected testicles, but quickly dismissed that moral conflict when he heard the footsteps of his flatmate leaving the living room. John made a dash for the perfectly suited bed and settled himself against the surprisingly soft and luxuriously rich fibers of the sheets.

“It’s a pity he doesn’t use the bed more often, I’d give it great use” John argued with himself before his eyes widened on reflection of the potential innuendo his thoughts could arouse. Captain Jack Harkness would have had a field day! John shook his head back and forth once again, ignoring the images of the barely… clothed… detective lying flat on his back, in nothing but those tight… boxer shorts… 

“This is ridiculous-” He thought again to himself, cleaning the corner of his mouth where a small dribble of liquid had seeped from the slit, “-he has no idea what he does to me. I doubt he even understands the benefits of intimacy.” John sighed and watched his not-so-toned chest expand to full capacity and drop back below his line of vision. Sherlock didn’t have any interest in men, nor had he any interest in creatures that were capable of fluent communication. He was more attached to a severed ear that had collected a rare form of fungi more than three months ago than to any other human being he had known.

John habitually shuffled towards the right side of the bed, closest to the window, leaving a human shaped space to his right as he lay flat once again on the chilled bed and all at once he began to feel less like his overbearing flatmate and more like his old self again. The pettiness and the whining melted from his pores, revealing the remnants of his own personality, which had been suffocating under the younger man’s near constant influence. The doctor sighed and shut his weighty eyelids.

Several minutes of peaceful bliss passed and John pursed his lips into a smile so genuine he would not have believed it to be of his own accord. His fingers twitched and he arched his back into the air, stretching in a feline-like manner. Once his head stopped buzzing he realised that Sherlock, hot on his trail only seconds before he entered the room, was nowhere to be seen. He listened for footfall but there was no sign of the lanky detective. 

John turned his head towards the bedroom door which had been left ajar after his entrance, and spotted a dark shape hovering in the passage. It was Sherlock. He stood staring at John with an unreadable expression on his face. He looked exactly as he had looked less than ten minutes ago perched on the leather chair with his hands steepled under his chin and eyes screwed shut. But somehow he looked… strange. Was it possible he looked taller and more broad-shouldered than he had before? John scanned the length of his flatmate’s body, modestly toned but not bulging; defined but not etched with visible veins. Exactly how John liked his men, apparently. 

“You’re in my bed” Sherlock stated in a dreary undertone. 

“Top marks for observation, Sherlock. You really at the world’s greatest consulting detective,” John spoke in breathless huffs, laced with tiredness. 

“Would you mind removing yourself from my bed?” The detective spoke, much more serious than before.   
John raised himself on his elbow and faced the door, his eyebrows arched inquisitively.

“Why?” John asked, unsure whether he really wanted to know the answer.

“Because your hypocrisy getting all over my sheets!” the taller man spat towards the bed.

John looked fearfully at Sherlock and pulled his brow into a scowl. 

“Excuse me?” John replied, suddenly determined to see this to its conclusion.

“You constantly harper on about invasion of personal space as being my primary weakness, yet here you are, throwing yourself into MY personal quarters, or are you the only one in this flat entitled to a bit of privacy?” 

John’s face grew paler and paler as Sherlock’s face went redder and redder with fury, his arms flailing violently the more animated the argument became.

“But-” John whimpered, but Sherlock continued regardless.

“Your primitive mind conforms soooo easily to social conventions, John, it’s pathetic!”

John could feel tears welling in the corners of his eyes but he drew in a deep breath and batted them away. At this, John felt a surge of anger rise from the pit of his chest, like a demon breaking from a cage. He clambered off the mattress and stalked over to his housemate, grabbing the first thing he could put his hands on, which happened to be one of the twin pillows. He drew back his arm and swung the padded object towards his flatmates face. A muffled sound escaped Sherlock’s mouth as the marshmallow made contact with his mouth with all the force John could muster.

Both men stood staring at one another once more, teeth stripped and pulses racing. Sherlock broke the gaze by momentarily looking towards the floor to the left of John. Impulsively John followed Sherlock’s gaze. On the floor lay a small square object, flat against the floor. It was dark with while strips surrounding it. A polaroid. John looked back up to the face of the man opposite him to find his expression completely changed. He was edgy and his body flinched several times before his body lunged towards the photograph on the floor. 

John’s military reflexes kicked into action and he dropped to the floor and intercepted the photo before Sherlock’s long fingers could reach it, and he bounded upright and out the bedroom door, returning to the dreadful heat of the outer world. He raced to the bathroom and slammed the door behind him, locking the door in turn. Seconds later Sherlock was banging at the door with such force, John was reminded of the scene in The Shining followed by Sherlock’s manic head peering through the wood shouting “Heeeeere’s Sherly.”

“Open this door, John, and do NOT look at that photo you imbecilic baboon!” were the words Sherlock bellowed between repetitive thuds to the shaking wooden door. 

John’s heart was pumped with adrenaline as he gazed at the photo. 

It was of himself, Sherlock, Molly and Lestrade at last year’s annual Christmas party. John had flashbacks of the night in question, particularly the part where Sherlock verbally abused the photographer for interrupting his particularly gruesome description of a body he had once examined before John had lived with him. 

John fingered the photo carefully and noticed a dull, worn spot next to John’s reddened with alcohol face. The rest of the photo was in perfect condition apart from this one spot. In the picture John has his arm thrown around the detective’s shoulders, while the detective in question stood blank and emotionless in retaliation. 

Why would Sherlock have this picture? Why was it under his pillow and why does he not want me to see it so badly? Penned on the back of the photo was the date the photograph was taken followed by the word Breakthrough in Sherlock’s scratchy handwriting. 

“Breakthrough?” John mouthed to himself just above a whisper. His mind searched desperately for a connection. Ten seconds passed in thought before it all came flooding back to him, and he reached for the towel rack for balance.

“No!” John said, louder than expected. The banging stopped on the door and the room was silent. John heard a dull thud as the man on the far side of the door pressed his forehead to the wood, balancing himself. 

John turned swiftly and headed for the door. He unlocked it but just as he was about to pull the door open he thought better than to disturb the other man’s balance. 

John brought himself to his full height and started “Sher-Sherlock?” 

A quiet mumble reverberated through the wood. 

“I- I didn’t know” was all the doctor could manage. 

“Well now you do-” Sherlock answered “-so there is no further need for you to hold onto that photograph.  
John slowly turned the handle and pulled the door slowly open. He was greeted by the most dejected look he had ever witnessed.

“Why did you never say anything before this?” was all John could ask. 

Sherlock looked to the floor and shuffled. “Because I never found the need to. Why would I risk further distracting myself with your vexation or worse?” He looked very near tears himself.

“But you-”

“I know.”

“And he-” 

“I know.”

A short pause followed.

“But you’re not-” John continued.

“YES, yes I am, John, and have been for quite some time.”

Another pause and John could almost hear Sherlock’s pulse racing. 

John felt suddenly drawn to Sherlock in a way he couldn’t describe, like a magnetic field had been switched on marked specifically for these two polar opposites, John positive, Sherlock negative.

John felt suddenly very exposed in his shorts, especially since he was now fully enjoying the man in front of him, in all his vulnerability. 

“Fingermarks. The dull patch on the photo was made by finger marks linger over a particular spot for long periods of time. That’s why it was under my pillow” Sherlock answered the question that had never been asked.

John shifted his weight awkwardly before impulsively reaching up to graze his fingertips along Sherlock’s cheekbone. Sherlock didn’t flinch. 

“M-may I-” John pushed.

“Oh God yes,” and within moments Sherlock had his arms wrapped around the shorter man and had his lips locked onto John’s in a wet passionate kiss. John reeled back but Sherlock pulled him back bringing his body further into the embrace. 

They stood there, in the bathroom, devouring each other’s mouths. John could feel himself being guided back towards the wall and the cool contact made him start. Sherlock pinned him to the wall and bent his head to take full advantage of the opportunity he had been granted. John’s lips parted uncontrollably and a wet tongue shot in to fill the space. Their tongues glided off one another as though it were the most natural thing in the world. John felt a part of him he never knew was missing slot into place with the new found euphoria of the great man’s presence before him.

They drew back sweating and yearning.

“We shouldn’t-” John stared but was interrupted by Sherlock’s tongue once more. 

“Shut up, you great big fool of a man” was all Sherlock managed before his hand reached down and started massaging the fleshy skin of John’s ass cheek. 

A groan escaped John’s lips and Sherlock’s lips curled with sensation. John forced his head back and quickly spat “Your bed, NOW”

Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and dragged him towards the bedroom and he pushed the smaller man onto the bed, followed closely by the firm pinning of his body into the mattress. 

Sherlock’s hands started to wander all over John’s body and tugged at the hem of Johns vest. John arched to allow the taller man to pull it over his head and his face immediate began lapping wet sloppy kisses all over John’s exposed torso.  
John moaned again at the feeling and he felt a constriction building up in his shorts. 

In sync, Sherlock looked up to the man’s face, a devilish grin spread across his features.

“Allow me,” and seconds later John’s erect penis bounced up, freed from the uncomfortable shorts. 

Sherlock chuckled. “No underwear today? Almost like you knew they would be a hindrance”

“Mmmmmmmnnn you caught me off guard” John moaned into the empty air above his head.   
Sherlock trailed his fingers down John’s chest and along the line of his groin, shifting himself lower until John’s view of Sherlock’s face was hidden behind his own throbbing erection. 

“I’ve wanted to do this for so long” and he swallowed the entire length of John’s penis in his mouth. 

John wailed and grasped handfuls of the Egyptian cotton beneath him. Sherlock bounced up and down expertly unable to swallow enough of the man beneath him. John could feel the back of Sherlock’s throat with each pivot and the sensation was too much. John reached down and tugged two handfuls of Sherlock’s hair as he came violently into his friend’s mouth.

The world was spinning for what felt like years and he could feel Sherlock’s mouth drawing out each drop of juice from John’s penis, desperate not to lose a drop. 

When John came back to life, he could see Sherlock smiling up at him, now leaning in him chest.

“Oh. Wow. God. I-” he stopped, unable to finish the sentence, his thoughts flowing lucidly around his head. 

Sherlock reached up and kissed John tenderly. The older man winced at the taste of himself.

“Sher-lock!” John whined and pushed the younger man away from him playfully.

“Not good?”

“A bit not good, no” John finished before they both burst out laughing in each other’s arms.

They lay in silence for a few moments, John become more aware of his surroundings and in particular of Sherlock.

“You haven’t finished yet” 

Sherlock’s eyebrow arched and he looked down at his own bulging erection. 

“Care to give me a hand with that?” he asked playfully

John laughed and flipped the younger man on his back.

“Oh God yes” and proceeded to trace his lips down the incredible man’s body.


End file.
